


Fanboys

by Doctor McCaduceus (Lemniscate)



Category: Heroes - Fandom, Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Comedy, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-16
Updated: 2009-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemniscate/pseuds/Doctor%20McCaduceus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder and Sylar find yet another thing they have in common.  For Yet Another Heroes Anonymous Kink Meme prompt on LJ: Sylar/Mohinder, Star Trek cosplay, Sylar wants to go to the latest Star Trek movie in cosplay and to get Mohinder to go with him, shows off his Mr. Spock uniform, complete with ears and gets a very enthusiastic response</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fanboys

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this before I saw the new Trek movie, so there's not really much about the movie.

Mohinder had just walked into the door of his apartment, sorting through mail, tossing the cab keys into a little metal bowl on the table next to the door. He narrowed his eyes as a blurry reflection came into the thin plastic window of an envelope of a bill. Before he could turn around, he felt a sharp pain as something clamped down on his neck.

"_OW,_" he shouted, spinning around and grabbing the offender by the neck and slamming his back to the door.

"Damn it," Sylar said, scowling. "Let me try again."

"No!" Mohinder exclaimed. Sylar rolled his eyes and flicked a finger, prying Mohinder's off his neck and allowing himself to drop to the floor.

"It's not gonna kill you; it's the Vulcan nerve pinch, and I _don't_ screw these things up. At least not twice. Turn around."

Mohinder's eyes narrowed.

"McCoy couldn't execute the Vulcan nerve pinch, and he was a published medical doctor for _multiple_ alien species. What makes you think you can pull it off?"

"Picard could!" Sylar retorted defensively. It was Mohinder's turn to roll his eyes this time.

"Next Generation? _Really._ If you start quoting me Enterprise or try to attack my vagus nerve again, I'm going to break your jaw."

"Like you could," Sylar sulked.

"Why are you trying this on me, anyway?" Mohinder sighed, picking the mail up off the floor. "I'd been told you were driving around with some sort of intern-villain. Shouldn't he be on the receiving end of crap like this, fetching coffee and such?"

Sylar scowled.

"He didn't work out," he replied. "Had to let him go."

"He'll never get into an Ivy league evil college now," Mohinder muttered, taking off his coat and tossing it onto a chair as he strode the approximately eighteen inches that separated his front door from his kitchen. Sylar hovered around, exploring the minute studio.

"He couldn't get the coffee right," he said, watching Mohinder put on the kettle with longing. "And I haven't had a good cup of tea in forever..."

"Oh fine," Mohinder grumbled. "Sit down and tell me what you want."

"Nothing much. I want to see a movie," he said primly. Mohinder turned from the kettle, hands on his hips and one eyebrow raised.

"Sylar. First, I don't believe you. Second, a movie? In New York? On a cab driver's salary? Third, so go see a bloody movie; what do you need me for?"

"I'm not going to see a movie alone; people will think I'm creepy!" Sylar argued.

"If you don't want to see movies alone, you're going to have to stop killing everyone you encounter," Mohinder retorted, grabbing the kettle, pouring hot water into a green cup, the companion to the one he'd used to drug Sylar in the first place, and dropping in a tea bag before thunking it down in front of him.

"Why do you think I haven't killed you? And it'll be my treat. I'll even buy you an icee."

Mohinder rubbed his forehead and sighed.

"What movie?" he asked, preparing his own tea.

"Can't you guess?" Sylar asked coyly. Mohinder narrowed his eyes.

"Sylar," he said in a warning tone.

Sylar leapt to his feet and tore open the black button down shirt he wore to reveal an azure blue shirt, a slight v-neck allowing a black shirt underneath to peek through. Whether there was another blue shirt underneath that, Mohinder had no idea.

Mohinder recognized the art deco-ish arrowhead insignia, though, and took a sip of his tea to cover his agitation. The blue brought out the rusty red of Sylar's eyes. While the black he usually wore was a harsh contrast, that pale throat looking just creamy good enough to lick—

"You like that, don't you?" Sylar growled. Mohinder took another sip of tea and paused, spitting out a button.

"You got buttons in my tea," he muttered, holding it up. "I could've choked."

"Plus," Sylar said, ignoring him, "I learned a new trick."

Sylar fluttered his fingers and stroked them over the cartilage of his outer ears. The auricles ceased to be rounded and tapered to delicate points. Mohinder took a sharp breath, hands trembling. He should care who died for the ability he'd just seen.

"Illusion?" Mohinder asked, setting his button-contaminated tea down. Sylar smirked.

"Touch them," he replied, getting up and slinking around the table into Mohinder's personal space, tilting his head slightly. Mohinder knew that if he had any sense, he'd follow through on his original threat to break Sylar's jaw. Instead, he reached up and touched Sylar's ear, tracing the shape of the auricle.

"Real," Mohinder said hoarsely. "How—?"

"You don't really want to know," Sylar said, leaning his head into Mohinder's hand.

"You want to see Star Trek," Mohinder said, trying to wrap his brain around what his fingers were feeling. "Dressed as Spock?"

"Now you're getting it," Sylar replied. "What do you say, Doctor? Up for a movie?"

"Won't I look silly?" Mohinder asked with a hint of sarcasm, indicating his street clothes, his perfectly human ears. Sylar grinned and moved back to the point at which they'd started when Mohinder had returned home, scooping up a plastic bag and extracting a whole additional outfit, the shirt the same science officer blue as the one Sylar wore. Sylar's breathing was labored as he pressed it against Mohinder's chest. Mohinder had trouble tearing his eyes from Sylar's ears, but managed to get his hands around the costume anyway, glancing down.

"I'm surprised it's not red, frankly," Mohinder said, his voice cracking. Sylar actually looked wounded.

"How can you say that?" he pouted. "If I'm being Spock, you have to be McCoy."

Mohinder tilted his head slightly.

"If I'm McCoy and you're Spock, then who's Kirk?"

"Who cares?" Sylar shrugged then licked his lips. "Put it on."

Mohinder huffed, setting the Starfleet uniform on the table and pulling his Henley over his head and tossing it over the back of a chair, then pulling off his belt and undoing his jeans.

"Kirk is _fairly_ important to the dynamic of the Spock-Kirk-Bones relationship," Mohinder replied, putting on the black uniform trousers and picking up the shirt.

"Fine, Petrelli then," Sylar replied dismissively, picking up Mohinder's discarded clothes and folding them, bringing the shirt to his face and inhaling quickly, but deeply, while Mohinder's vision was obstructed while he pulled on the blue shirt.

"Which one?" Mohinder asked. Sylar snorted.

"Like it matters. You look great."

He reached out and shuffled the curls away from Mohinder's face.

"I don't look a bloody thing like Leonard McCoy," Mohinder chuckled, eyes flicking back up to Sylar's pointed ears again.

"That's hardly a bad thing," Sylar mused. "I've never particularly cared for blue eyes."

They stared at each other for a few moments before Mohinder cleared his throat.

"What time is the movie?" he asked. Sylar glanced at the clock radio in the kitchen.

"Twenty minutes. We should get going."

He reached out and let his fingertips brush over the silver embroidered insignia on Mohinder's chest.

"Lint," he lied, then turned and headed toward the door, knowing Mohinder was right behind him.

Only in New York could Mister Spock hail a taxi and not have to endure a single comment.

They weren't the only ones at the movie in costume.

"Oh, man, those are _awesome_ fookin' ears dude!" one fanboy dressed as Mister Scott in a very bad Scottish accent.

"Don't touch me," Sylar sneered. The fanboy appeared undeterred, turning to Mohinder.

"Who are ye supposed to be, laddie?"

Mohinder just stared.

"Don't touch him either," Sylar said.

"Or what?" the kid laughed derisively. Sylar narrowed his eyes, reached out and squeezed the kid's neck. Said kid subsequently went down like a ton of chubby bricks. Sylar grinned triumphantly as Mohinder pinched the bridge of his nose and the crowd gaped.

"Was that really necessary?" Mohinder hissed as the usher took their tickets.

"Told you I wouldn't screw it up twice," Sylar smirked. "Where do you want to sit?"

Mohinder considered for a moment.

"The back row," he said, starting up the gradual stairs alongside the seats. "That way if people talk during we won't hear it, thus avoiding you resorting to massacre."

"Very logical," Sylar replied as they moved into the back row. Just to be safe, though, every time someone tried to unfold one of the seats in their row or the one ahead of it, Sylar held it firmly in place telekinetically. He glanced sidelong at Mohinder with a mischievous smirk, somewhat surprised that he wasn't getting scolded. Mohinder jumped, looking away quickly.

"These trailers are so obnoxious," Sylar grumbled once the lights dimmed. "By the time you get through them all you've forgotten what you were here to see."

"I'm going to get some snacks," Mohinder said abruptly. "Do you want anything?"

"Skittles," Sylar replied. "And a cherry icee."

Mohinder bolted from the row and Sylar vaguely wondered if he'd come back as he watched the Doctor scurry off, his cute little ass looking delectable in snug synthetic black.

The whole 'in the event of an emergency, please walk to the nearest exit' thing was playing when Mohinder got back, an enormous blood-red icee in one hand, a bag of Skittles and another of Reese's Pieces in the other.

"Fuck. I meant to get a cola," he grumbled, flustered, setting his purchases down and getting ready to go back to concessions. Sylar reached up and snagged the waist of his pants with two fingers, telekinetically knocking him back into his seat.

"It's about to start. There's about a reservoir's worth of cherry slush here. We can share," he said coyly. "I promise that I haven't got cooties."

"I might," Mohinder replied.

"Thanks to Claire Bennet, I have nothing to fear from cooties," Sylar replied, winding a dexterous tongue around the straw and taking a sip. The lights darkened completely, and the familiar opening notes of the theme rang through the theater. The fanboys cheered.

Sylar reached for the slush only to find that Mohinder had moved it to the cup holder farthest from Sylar. He was about to make a dry comment about sharing when Mohinder lifted the arm rest up that separated them. Neat feature, that, something to let the first date crowd hold hands.

When Mohinder reached over, however, it wasn't Sylar's hand he grabbed onto.

"You should've told me sooner that you were a fan," Mohinder growled, palming Sylar's crotch. "I can overlook a great deal indeed for a fellow Trek fan."

Sylar moaned as Mohinder grabbed something from his pocket with one hand, unzipping Sylar's pants and tugging his boxer-briefs down with the other, then lowering his own pants. He tore open a packet of lube with his teeth and smeared it on his fingers.

"You're giving me an injection of your blood later," Mohinder said, one leg planted on an arm rest, the other on the floor as he slicked up his asshole and stretched himself. "There's no telling what sort of filthy things people may have gotten up to in this theater."

Sylar didn't get a chance to comment on the irony before Mohinder dragged his slick fingers over Sylar's dick and speared himself on it, sliding down until his ass was flush with Sylar's lap, both of them facing the screen. Thank god for surround sound and a theater full of nerds cheering for every image that crossed the screen, otherwise everyone would've heard the startled cry that Mohinder let out in the process.

"Well that was very impulsive, Doctor," Sylar said after a moment, eyes still on the screen. "Hurts?"

"Not particularly," Mohinder murmurs, voice slightly strained. The lie shudders through Sylar, who reaches around Mohinder's waist, stroking a soothing path down his chest and stomach over the shirt before taking gentle hold of Mohinder's cock and stroking lightly.

"Ah…" Mohinder panted. "God, tighter, please."

"Not until you're ready to ride me, Doctor," Sylar replied. Mohinder turned his head to the side to kiss Sylar's temple. Mohinder's tongue flicked out and he traced Sylar's pointed ear with the tip of it. Sylar growled, wrapping his other arm around Mohinder's waist to hold him tight against him as he thrust up. "I take that to mean you're ready?"

"Mmmmhmmm," Mohinder hummed affirmatively, and there was no shudder of lies, but instead the reverberation every nerve of Sylar's body as Mohinder swiveled his hips, planted his feet and started to fuck himself on Sylar.

"You're missing the movie," Sylar teased as he rolled his hips to compliment Mohinder's thrusts, cupping his balls and fondling them.

"So are you," Mohinder smiled back, then leaned over and nipped the tip of Sylar's ear.

"Fuck," Sylar hissed, thrusting up sharply.

"Mmm, does the Vulcan like teeth?" Mohinder laughed, glancing at the screen. "You know, beyond the hair and the eyebrows, I do see the resemblance."

"If you bring up _pon farr_, I'll—"

"You'll what?" Mohinder asked. "You'll fuck me harder? Is that what it takes to make you lose control, you green-blooded, ice-hearted bastard? Blood fever?"

Mohinder tilted his head and pressed his lips to the pulse point in Sylar's neck, teeth grazing just a bit.

"You do feel a bit warm," he said against Sylar's skin.

"That's it. Fuck the movie," Sylar said, the arm rests of the whole row flipping backwards, causing the icee to smack against the wall with a splat. He lifted Mohinder off of his cock and tossed him on the row of seats, face up, and stripped Mohinder's pants off the rest of the way. He put Mohinder's legs up over his shoulders and shoved back in, seeming for all the world (or all the universe, Mohinder supposed) like some exotic alien creature gone mad with lust.

"God yes," Mohinder whimpered as Sylar pounded into him, Abrams' explosions covering the sound of slapping skin, Mohinder's cries, and Sylar's feral, snarling grunts. "Fuck."

"Like that?" Sylar growled. He knew that by the angle and his size he was rubbing Mohinder's prostate. He reached between them and squeezed Mohinder's balls.

"Love it," Mohinder groaned.

"I know," Sylar said. "Are you going to come for me, Doctor?"

Mohinder's eyes went unfocused, his fingers running over the shell of Sylar's altered ears. Sylar shifted his grip and wrapped around the shaft of Mohinder's cock and squeezed. Mohinder cried out and spattered their blue shirts with come. Sylar thrust twice more into Mohinder's clenching ass and came deep inside him, barely keeping himself braced on his forearms so that he didn't smother the doctor.

Mohinder had no idea what to say, just feeling boneless and dreamy and lightly stunned that there was yet another thing that he and Sylar had in common. It seemed more and more like destiny every time something like this happened.

"Let's get out of here," Mohinder said. "Don't want to spoil the movie for ourselves."

Sylar chuckled and gently tugged out of Mohinder, handing him his pants.

"So this is why there are two shirts to the uniform," he said, handing Mohinder the blue shirt he wore to clean up.

"Let's hope they don't need to be dry cleaned, otherwise this is going to become quite a pain," Mohinder replied, pulling up his pants as Sylar arranged himself back into his own. Mohinder shucked off his own blue shirt and he and Sylar made their way out of the theater and into the restroom to tidy up a bit. As Sylar dried his hands, Mohinder watched him in the mirror, fixing his hair.

"I'm gonna tell you something that I... never thought I'd ever hear myself say," Mohinder started, wondering if Sylar would recognize it. "But it seems I've... missed you. And I don't know if I could stand to lose you again."*

Sylar tossed the paper towels he'd used into the waste basket and brought a dry stack over to Mohinder. Mohinder dried his hands, wondering if Sylar was just going to pretend he hadn't heard, but once Mohinder's hands were dry, Sylar took his face in his hands and kissed him.

"You won't have to," he replied, giving Mohinder's shoulder a little shake for emphasis. "There's going to be at least two sequels."

 

*This is a line from McCoy to an unconscious Spock in Star Trek III.


End file.
